Somehow I have managed to tear myself from the loving arms of Mr Couch and a good book to write almost 149 posts for the Book Slut Gwen blog over the years. Now what to write about for milestone post Number 150?

I don’t come from a family of readers. We did have books in the house, almost of all them my father’s (a handful of textbooks from his college days, some books on aviation and running off to Alaska and starting a life in the wilderness). But my parents never considered going to the bookstore or library as necessary as breathing. (Blacklight: “Are you sure you and Andy aren’t adopted?” Me: “Dude, I look just like Grandma Lucille! Andy looks just like Grandpa Philippe!” Blacklight: “So you’re both changelings?” Me: <deep sigh>)

But my parents took turns reading to me every night. The books I remember aren’t the usual things you read a very small child. No Clifford the Big Red Dog, no Velveteen Rabbit or Mother Goose or Dr. Seuss. I’m not sure how they came across the books they picked. Maybe the garage sales my mother haunted every weekend? They went through the Little House series one by one and then turned to the Nancy Drew series.

One day, when I was clamoring for my mother to read to me, and overwhelmed with house work and my little brother, my mother told me to read the book (Nancy Drew #16 The Clue of the Tapping Heels) out loud myself. Between her and Sesame Street, I could see and understand very basic words. I stumbled and sounded out a page or two. And then my poor mother told me to read to myself. So I did. Did I understand every word? Of course not! I was four years old. But doing something the grownups could do with ease was magical. And there was CATS!

Was my mother being clever or just trying to get a moment’s peace? Who knows? Those three words unleashed a monster and opened a whole new world to me. You could have read to me for hours and I would demand “more!” and get upset about how very slow the whole process was. Maybe things haven’t changed that much because there are certain audiobooks I can start listening to at work and then get annoyed over how very long it’s taking to get through them when I can read them so much faster. One prime example? Back around 2001/2002 Marian Keyes’ Sushi for Beginners hadn’t been released in the US yet but somehow one of the local libraries had the unabridged audiobook. I would listen and by tape 4 be wondering just how expensive it would be to order the darn book from Amazon UK.

The wonderful and grownup magic of reading was mine. I didn’t have to wait for a grownup to make time to read to me. I could take a book, go into a quiet place and just read myself. If I wasn’t reading, I was thinking of how to get more books. (Blacklight: “And you’ve changed HOW?”) The back pages of the Nancy Drew  series had this wonderful promotion about getting the new titles as they were released for a low low price with a whole 50 cents shipping and handling. I would count through my piggy bank and wish I was a grownup who could just buy all the books they wanted. (Blacklight: “Wait, you still wish you could buy all the books you wanted…”) Sure there was the Scholastic catalog and book fairs at school but you can’t get very many books on a $1.00 a week allowance.

And now, here I am at 41. I still adore books (Blacklight: “Do you love books more than me?” Me: “Hmm…that depends…”). When my father called earlier today to see how I enjoyed my vacation he asked “So what books did you get with your birthday money?”. And didn’t seem at all surprised as I told him about my adventures in used books including finding the Folio Society edition of Jessica Mitford’s Hons and Rebels for $15.00 at Book Barn. But as thrilling and delightful as my birthday books are? Nothing is as awesome as the gift my mother and Carolyn Keene gave me that afternoon so long ago.